C Is For Cookie
by drewbug
Summary: Written for a "dead naked elf" challenge. That's all I'm saying.


**C Is For Cookie**

"Hey, Fryman. How're you, uh, doin there?"

Frylock eyed him skeptically from the doorway. "Fine... What can I do for you, Carl?"

"For me? Nothin, I'm good... Oh wait. There was somethin. I was looking for a little, you know, information. Seeing as how we're like neighbors and stuff."

"Information?"

"Yeah. See, on account of us being neighbors - and on account of how you guys are, you know, freaks - I was thinking maybe you might be able to tell me why there's **a dead elf floating around in my freakin pool**?"

"A dead _elf_?"

"Yeah, elf. One of them tiny cookie-making guys. Floating away like some crazy naked midget raft thing." He gestured toward his yard. "You don't believe me, Fryman, you can come over and see it. Hey, why dontcha bring your camera too - what the hell. We can make like another sequel to that _Weekend at Bernie's_ or whatever."

Carl turned and started walking toward his house, muttering something about selling tickets. Curious, Frylock floated after him.

The elf was indeed dead.

"How long has it been in there?" Frylock asked. He couldn't see its face, but from his hovering position above the pool he could make out the letters **K-E-E-B** tattooed on the visible part of one tiny wrist.

"Gee, I dunno, Fryman. I didn't ask him."

"And you don't have any idea where it might've come from?"

Carl poked the little body with the handle of the pool skimmer. "Maybe he got lost on the way to a freakin bake sale. How the hell am I supposed to know?"

"Well we can't just leave it in there."

"Wow, that's a real brilliant idea there. I mean, I was just gonna try and swim around him, but... Of **course** I'm not gonna freakin leave it in there."

"Hmmm. I wonder if there's some kind of hotline number we could call. To report him missing - or, well, _dead_."

"Nuh-uh. No way," Shake called, beelining for the pool with Meatwad rolling along the grass behind him. "That elf is **mine**. M-I-N-E mine." He grabbed the skimmer from Carl's hands and moved to scoop the body out.

Frylock sighed. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Great. That's great. Didn't I make some kind of rule about you keeping your things in **my** pool? Especially when they're, you know, all dead and stuff?"

"Geez, lighten up a little, Carl." Shake held the net over the grass, waiting for the excess water to drip off. "It was only in there for storage, so that it didn't rot. My customers only accept the highest quality merchandise."

"Your customers?" Frylock asked. "Shake, what the hell are you up to?"

Shake glanced at Meatwad. "Did I say customers? I meant, uh... scientists. Scientists who study elves. In the privacy of their own front yards."

"Front yards... Shake, are you selling dead Keebler Elves as** lawn gnomes**?"

Shake tipped the net, and the dead elf body fell to the ground to land with a slightly squishy plop. "_Specimens_, Frylock. Specimens. Posed and shellacked and reasonably priced at around $39.95."

"That one's a little bigger than the others," Meatwad said. "I bet we could get an extra 10 bucks for it."

Frylock turned to the smiling meatball. "You're in on this too?"

"Hell yes. Shake made me the President King In Charge Of Specialty Dipping. And if I don't pass out from the fumes, I get to lick the extra out of the bathtub when I'm done."

Frylock opened his mouth to say something, but shook his head. He turned back to Shake. "Tell me you at least put clothes on them."

"Waaaaay too much trouble. I'm trying to keep my overhead down here. Not that you know anything about the complexities of running your own business, but... Well, they are _complex_, let me tell you. More complex than you can imagine. Complexly so."

"You mean there are people out there who are actually shopping for naked lawn gnomes?"

"And I thought you guys were freaks," Carl said.

Shake looked at him. "Man, I do not want to know what kind of sick thoughts are going through _your_ head. Seriously. Both of you." He nudged the elf until it flipped over onto its back. "Nah, after they dry we toss them into the sink. Fill that puppy up with red paint and you're all set. Red is a very In color these days."

"Let me get this straight: You've been dying dead elves in our kitchen sink?"

"Only to start. Once we ramp up production, we were going to use Carl's pool. More cost effective that way."

"'Course you were," Carl said. "Carl's Pool - perfect for all your dead elf needs."

"That's real nice of you, Carl," Meatwad said.

"Nobody's using Carl's pool for anything, Meatwad. These elves were living creatures. You can't just collect and kill them for profit."

"Kill them? But Shake says they're still alive in there. Like tiny hard Spy People, all standing out there in the yard watching the stuff that goes on..."

"Oh he does, does he?" Frylock eyed Shake. Shake prodded the body some more. "And did he tell you just who these spies were supposed to be reporting back to?"

"Why, the Head Space Elf, of course. Man, Frylock. For a guy with such a big brain, sometimes you don't know nothing about nothing."

"Yeah, uh, the little meat thing has a point there, Fryman," Carl said.

"Okay, look," Frylock said, "someone has to be looking for him. Maybe if we put up posters, we could find his family and -"

"Hasn't got a family," Shake said. "I was very clear about that in the ad."

"The **ad**?"

"Sure. What, you think elves just show up in Carl's pool all on their own?"

"Sure in the hell seems like it. And if it ain't elves, it's some other freakin thing..."

"The ad specifically said 'no surviving family.' That, and 'a burning desire to forge a new path in the growing Cookie Industry.'"

"Hey! You told me they signed up for this special mission at Spy Headquarters!" Meatwad sounded upset. "You said they had to go through 5 weeks of training with James Bond before they could come and work for us."

Shake turned to him. "Meatwad, I say a lot of things. Not all of them are true. But I can't possibly be held responsible for a thing like that, now can I?"

Meatwad looked uncertain. "No, I guess not..."

Before Frylock could point out the absurdity of _that_ statement, he was interrupted by Carl. "Oh no. No way. What the hell is **this** now?"

Together they turned to see a group of fifteen elves heading their way. The little creatures were carrying egg beaters, spatulas, forks - and they all looked very much alive. And very pissed off.

"I said **no family**!" Shake shouted, backing up quickly. He tripped over the naked elf body; righting himself, he kicked the body toward the approaching mob. "Last time I hire anybody without a background check - if that guy were still alive, he would be **so** fired."

end.


End file.
